


The Adventure of the Horrible Goose

by winterhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Untitled Goose Game (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Gen, Pastiche, Story: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, causing trouble on purpose, saviour goose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterhill/pseuds/winterhill
Summary: The blue carbuncle of the Countess of Morcar has gone missing; so have a number of Christmas geese. Pastiche of “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” and “Untitled Goose Game”.NB: although there is reference to christmas geese in this fic, there is no goose death. The horrible goose is out to save them all!
Comments: 26
Kudos: 104
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Adventure of the Horrible Goose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alasse_Irena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Irena/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta.

The man crept in by the gate from the laneway; a dangerous thing to do, really. He was headed for the flock of geese that his sister kept, the group of them belligerently huddled against the cold. One, though, was not huddled in the flock of goosedown and general bastardry. It had been looking for this opportunity. It was going to have Christmas dinner, and it wasn’t going to be the star attraction. It had fluttered over the gate to the goose pen, and its marauding in the yard hadn’t led to much until now. 

Now, it had a target. 

A subtle beak in the pocket brought out a peppermint, a glassy rock, and a set of keys. The goose swallowed the peppermint and the rock for safekeeping, and grabbed the keys. 

Now. The time was now. 

“HONK,” said the goose. The flock stirred. A clarion called them. “HONK.” 

“Ah, d—,” said the intruder, as a sound stirred from within the house. 

The goose honked again, and waggled the keys at the intruder. Then it slid them under the latched gate. The intruder swore again, looked around, and undid the latch. 

A tsunami of malevolence made its feathered way towards the open prison gate, honking and hollering in joyful liberation. 

“Who’s out there?” asked a woman from inside the house, and that was enough for the intruder; he bolted, but not before he unbolted the gate to the lane, and the flock surged and waddled and were free. 

The geese honked, and kicked the gate shut behind them, hearing the latch click. Inside, there was calamity and tumult. Outside, the flock swiftly melted into the night. 

_______________

It was the second morning before Christmas, and Watson had called upon his old friend Sherlock Holmes with the intent of wishing him the compliments of the season. His trip to Baker Street had not been uneventful, however; he had had to avoid an avian menace of the like never seen in London before. 

Holmes was sitting, stretched out in his rather magnificent purple dressing gown, where he could both examine a clue and lounge at the same time. He looked up, and smiled a rare smile. 

“Watson.” 

“Holmes,” said Watson. “Compliments of the season.” 

Holmes didn’t bother to sit up further, but raised an eyebrow. “I see your trip was eventful.” 

“Rather. There seems to be a flock of geese living at St James’s. I had to run or they were going to eat me for Christmas supper.” 

“Turnabout is fair play, I suppose,” said Holmes, drily. He had a hat set where he could look at it most carefully. “What do you think of this, then? You know my methods.” 

The hat had a large, somewhat oval chunk taken out of its brim. It had perhaps been rolled in slushy snow at some point. It had undoubtedly seen better days. 

“Where was it found?” asked Watson. 

“In the street, alongside a Christmas goose. Tag of “For Mrs Henry Baker” on the goose, and the hatband reads “HB” — but there are many hundreds, if not thousands of Bakers in London. Peterson found it, and knowing how I like these small but fascinating mysteries, brought it to me. It has obviously been ill-used, but why?” His eyes sparkled. “Perhaps it has something to do with the flock of geese that so ignominiously attacked you.” 

Watson would have said more, perhaps defended his reputation, but there was a rush of feet on the stairs, and a man — Peterson — burst in. 

“The goose, Mr Holmes!” he said. “The goose, sir!” 

“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

“Well — yes!” said the commissionaire, wringing his hands. “But not before it stole all my wife’s best spoons, sir.” 

“What does a goose want with spoons?” Watson wondered aloud. 

“What does a goose want with anything?” asked Holmes. “How curious. Very well, let us go and find the St James’s geese.” 

_______________

The goose was proud of its liberation efforts — finding a fellow-in-arms destined for the chopping block, and wriggling the window open had been but gosling’s play to such an accomplished fowl. Furthermore, it had made its way into another house through the coal cellar, and left a pleasing trail of sooty footprints through the kitchen, on the Christmas cake, right up to the decorations (which it stole), and up the wall as it fluttered to steal the servant’s bell. There was a saucer of milk in the ventilation grate, which it upset. 

It stole a beggar’s pan. It stole a set of naval plans from one fine house, and a set of photographs from another. It even stole an engineer’s thumb, but that’s another story. 

Most of all, it stole geese. It honked the stunned awake, unlatched the backyard pens, rolled the near-frozen to the hearthrug to get the blood pumping through their breasts. It led them out, a white-feathered pied piper, and they joined the hissing, furious morass of waterfowl that was now lurking on every street corner in London, stealing from every pocket and every stall, and having a marvellous time with it. It crept into butcher’s windows and lay still, because there’s nothing funnier than someone carrying a goose home to dinner and then dropping it in distress when it honks like a trumpet. 

The goose was having a very merry Christmas _indeed._

_______________

It turned out that when a large flock of geese does not want to be found, they will not be found. Not, at least, until its ringleader sneaks up behind an esteemed detective and honks loudly at him, causing him to cover a flinch and a sudden movement to attack. Not until a doctor’s case is opened and several scalpels liberated in the ensuing fuss. Not until a policeman’s truncheon is stolen, and dragged away along the road.

“Fine,” said Holmes. “Very fine indeed. There’s more than one way to pluck a goose.” 

The advertisement he put in the evening papers was brief. Curt. It’s hard to hold a pen when your fingers have been nipped by a beak. 

'Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.'

It appeared in the papers right under the advertisement that had been there for days — 

‘Stolen from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Reward given for a magnificent gem. Contact J Ryder, at same hotel.” 

The second advertisement had struck Sherlock Holmes as curious — why would the hotel be seeking the Countess’s blue carbuncle, and not the woman herself? It caught in the back of his mind, like a stone in his shoe, but in the meantime, he had to see a man about a goose. 

______________

“It came back to life?” asked Mr Henry Baker, erstwhile goose-owner, staring sadly at his ruined hat. “I thought I must have been dreaming when the d—n thing — apologies, sir — stirred in my arms and then attacked me. I hit it on the head, but then there were others, and well. I.” 

“Fled,” said Holmes. “The mud spatter on your trousers and distinct tear in the shape of a beak indicates that you fled. The bruise under your right eye is distinctly beak-shaped. Add to that your crumpled handkerchief, and you must have been—” 

“Holmes,” said Watson, gently. “Some dignity for the chap, yes?” 

“It wanted my hat,” said Baker. “Heavens knows why.” 

“Heavens knows why geese want anything,” Watson said.

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at him with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"By the way,” he said, “would it bore you to tell me where you got it from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have interest in such behaviour from a goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his sad and humble hat under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you."

He took his leave, as did Holmes and Watson. It was a matter of but a few minutes to get the butcher’s address from the proprietor of the Alpha. It was less easy to get anything from the butcher, who was packing his wares for the night, getting ready to close. 

"Good-evening," said Holmes. "Sold out of geese, I see." 

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the 'Alpha.' "

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?" 

The salesman fired up in a burst of anger, head cocked, arms akimbo.

"Now, then, mister," said he, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them." He slammed the shutters down. “It’s not my fault that there’s geese in the park. I didn’t put the devil in the birds; the devil was already in them.” 

“Shall we have a drink?” Watson suggested. “I feel that there is a story here to be shared.” 

______________

The Alpha sold them brandy, not the good stuff, but enough to be going on with. The butcher, deep in his cups, spilled the story of the bedevilled geese. 

“..and one after the other, they’ve been running away. People been demanding their money back, but they was dead when they come to me. Or at least stunned.” 

“Or playing possum,” said Holmes.

“It’d be a whole flock of geese playing possum,” said the butcher, Breckenridge. “A whole flock, waking up in people’s kitchens.” 

“Christmas would be ruined,” Watson agreed. 

“A whole flock,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Where did the geese come from?” 

“Was funny,” said Breckenridge, “but old Mrs Oakshott didn’t get no-one to sign for the delivery. They was just delivered out the back, necks already wrung, limp as rags. I sent ‘em out right away. Came in right after we sent out the lot for the Alpha. There was this one, this big b—— oop, sorry, sir. This one that was… different. I remember it. We sent it out for a Mrs Baker.” 

Holmes sat up straighter. “What did you say?” 

“This one big one. Couldn’t swear to it, but I thought I heard it honking and clanging right before they was dropped off. Knew it was that one because it was right on top of the pile.” 

“And you didn’t see who sent them?” 

“They was just delivered,” said Breckenridge. 

“Has this happened to anyone else? Mysterious deliveries of geese, without contact from your suppliers?” 

The butcher shrugged. “Maybe. Been a busy year.” 

“My good man, do you have a list of your customers?” 

“Yes.” 

“Give it to me,” said Holmes. “I know what’s happening.” 

“Really?” asked Watson. 

“Watson,” said Holmes. “It’s imperative that we find that goose.” 

______________

Holmes would have been happy knocking up everyone on Breckenridge’s long list, but Watson’s sanity prevailed, and they returned to Baker Street for a few hours’ rest. Trudging through the snow next day, they went from house to house, like the gloomiest carollers, and in each house, the same story prevailed: the christmas goose had been stolen, along with several small and portable items. Not valuables, but things like spectacles, the coal scuttle, marzipan mice, and oranges. Following the waddling tracks in the snow led to caches of tat, although the marzipan mice all seemed to have been eaten. 

More infuriatingly, they kept seeing white feathers disappearing around corners, beaks sneaking into people’s pockets, footprints in the virgin snow. A HONK rang out in the clear air, but by the time they’d run it down, it had vanished. 

“Are you going to tell me your theory, Holmes, or shall you make me guess?” asked Watson, eventually. 

“Deduce.” 

“Deduce, then. We’re looking for the goose because you believe that we’ll catch the gang of foul thieves ruining everyone’s Christmas holidays?” 

“No,” said Holmes. “We’re looking for the goose because it is the ringleader of a gang of fowl thieves ruining everyone’s Christmas holidays.” 

Watson sighed, much as a man terribly put-upon by both waterfowl and consulting detectives might. 

“And you believe that if we find this one goose, then there will be no more avian escapees?” 

“Exactly,” said Holmes, as they knocked on the next door. 

The woman who answered looked harried. “Oh good,” she said. “I thought you were that horrible goose.” 

“Do you know where it’s gone?” asked Holmes, urgently. “Did it flee?” 

“Not before upsetting the soup tureen,” she said. “It flapped off that way. Down towards Baker Street.” 

______________

The trick had worked every time. The goose lay down, went limp, and waited to be discovered. It had taught its brethren, and across the city it heard shrieks and honking, glassware shattering, swearing and tutting and Christmas decorations being upended. 

“Oh,” said the shopkeeper in its latest lair, “my apologies, Mrs Hudson. Looks like I do have one left after all.” 

“How lovely, how lovely,” a woman said. “I’ve an unexpected guest, and the gents do like a good goose.” 

“As do we all,” the man commented, and passed the goose to her; after a short trip, the goose found itself, once again, in a kitchen. It hopped up and off the block. 

The goose looked around. 

A fairly ordinary kitchen, but there were _stairs_. Up it went, hop, hop, jump, and a clever beak nosed around a doorway into an Aladdin’s cave of delights. Glass retorts shining with chemicals, empty bottles, a revolver, a dressing gown, so many things to play with! So many things to hide! 

So many things that would cause _so much trouble on purpose_. 

It was only when voices came from downstairs that it fluttered to the window, ready to make its waddling escape into the night. 

“…got you a nice goose for dinner,” said the woman. “Oooh, where’s it gone?” 

“Watson!” snapped a male voice. “Upstairs, now!” 

The goose knew it had worn out its welcome, and honked mightily to shouts from below. Levering the window open with its wicked beak, it left, but not before horking up out of its crop a shiny blue stone. 

______________

“Well,” said Watson, as the pair of them looked at the Countess’s blue carbuncle, slimy and glistening in the middle of Mrs Hudson’s very nice carpet. “I suppose it got away.” 

Holmes massaged the bridge of his nose. “And I suppose we know how the blue carbuncle was stolen. Not that we were investigating that,” he said. “A goose. A ———- goose.” 

Watson patted his arm, and then picked up the carbuncle in his handkerchief. “It’ll wash off.” 

“Where is my tobacco? I find myself in desperate need.” 

The persian slipper was nowhere to be found. Nor was Holmes’s pipe. Nor, more worryingly, was his drug paraphernalia — the thought of that goose self-medicating with cocaine was a terrifying one. Eventually, Holmes flopped onto his chaise and stared at the sparkling blue stone, a pensive melancholy pervading his every movement. 

“Holmes?” asked Watson. “Shall I—” 

“No.” 

“Then—” 

“Watson,” said Holmes. “If it should ever strike you that I am getting a little confident in my powers, or heading off on a wild-goose chase, I would like you to whisper one word in my ear. _Honk._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Alasse_irena! I hope you got lots of geese.


End file.
